


These Impassioned Eyes

by drowninglovers



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Grantaire is a tour guide at the Louvre I don't know why, M/M, Reincarnation fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-05 09:27:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/721495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drowninglovers/pseuds/drowninglovers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If one life isn't enough they'll burn through more until they find each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Impassioned Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [They Shall Have Stars](https://archiveofourown.org/works/693618) by [jehans](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehans/pseuds/jehans). 



> The formatting is screwed up I'll fix it when I have proper computer

You're far too sober for this.

  
No matter how well this job pays and how convenient it is, all the money in the world isn't worth having to guide groups of wide-eyed tourists around a museum that may give them a heart attack while slurring out the same dull speech on the different artistic periods, that Monet and Manet were not the same person and, how many times do you have to tell the morbidly obese couple with the blindly white tennis shoes that flash photography is not allowed in the building.

  
If you have to explain once more how Romanticism came about you might seriously consider throwing yourself out a window.

  
You pause for a minute to look over at Liberty Leading the People hanging across the room from you because for some reason it always manages to calm you down. The rebels from all walks of life, their mouths open in shouts that you swear you can hear with flames writhing around in their impassioned eyes. And the flag, the tricolour being held up by France herself , always manages to strike a familiar chord.

  
You wave it off as being ridiculous, that painting was done over 200 years ago and the rebellion happened in 1832 -June 4th to be exact though you're not quite sure how you know this- so there's no way in hell that any of this should be familiar.

  
You're almost about to redirect the tiniest percent of your brainpower that's required to deal with your group when a person comes into your vision and you swear the world begins to spin.

  
A solitary figure draped in a red blazer gazes at the painting with an tender look almost like....

  
No.

  
No this isn't happening. Not here, not now. Try as much as you want to deny it you tear away from the group and stare at him, trying to block out every other sound in the room.

  
_Gunfire blasts in your ears, cries of freedom, strangled sobs, fallen friends, blood flowing onto the cobblestone streets like water and then nothing._   
_It is quiet and you are laying newly awakened from wine-induced slumber among bodies that used to be your friends. He stands by the window like an avenging angel come to release his divine wrath unto all who denied his power. Unarmed and uninjured you watch as he denies any luxury for his last rites and feel your jaw clench upon hearing one of the officers say that he feels almost as if he is about to shoot a flower. You get up, declare yourself one of them and stride over to join your Apollo. Actions always did speak louder than words even when you ask him if he permits it and your hand is grasped in his, dying by his side is the best that you could ever hope for and even better than you deserve._

  
_A smile, a command to fire and then heaviness...nothing, again._

  
You blink open eyes that have begun to get misty and go from a stationary to a million miles in half a second. There's no gunfire or corpses here. You're shuddering and feeling like you're going to vomit up your internal organs and wishing that you had forgotten how to cry-since you haven't for years and have long denied yourself the right of self pity- in, not a wine shop, but a museum.

  
A very public museum where your group is torn between confusion and concern but you pay them no attention because he's here.  
He's here and that's all that matters.

  
"Do you permit it?" You mumble to yourself and from across the room that golden head whips around. There's no way he heard you unless he's a hawk but sure enough you see recognition (and shock) in his eyes.

  
Without waiting for a response you stagger over to him, ignoring the salty tears that streak their way down your cheeks and that the entire museum thinks you're a lunatic. He's close, so close and you need to know that he-and everything else- is real. He stands in front of you like a human deity bathed in a glowing light that seems to come from a different world and you begin to understand how Pygmalion came to fall in love with a marble statue.

  
"Do you permit it?" You ask again. His fingers mesh with yours, then trace up your wrists and arms until they are wrapped securely around you. Standing still for a moment, you want to melt into the way one of this hands has tightened in your hair and the other snaked around your back. This makes you feel more safe than you can ever remember.  
You collapse onto him and force out syllables as gasps against the crook of his neck "En-Enjolras."

  
"Grantaire," You can hear the smile in his voice that turns your name into a symphony "you're here."

  
By now your tears have dampened his clothing and there's no way that any of the members of that tour group will be leaving you tips.

  
"Smoke will always follow fire even after it's been put out." You breathe and want to cover every inch of his skin with kisses to designate him as yours but would be satisfied to just look at him for the rest of your days.

  
"My Grantaire." He murmurs pulling away from the embrace only slightly to draw a hand over your cheeks and wipe away the tears that are only heightened by this action.  
My, he said my. You are is his Grantaire.

  
He is yours and you are his and you don't ever recall feeling so full of anything like your chest might rupture and spill out onto him.

  
"I absolutely permit it." The words are so soft that only you can hear them and the slight brush of his lips against your forehead sends you back into sobs. If dying by his side is more than you deserve than living by his side is more than anyone deserves, yet somehow you're there and don't intend on leaving.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know who would hire Grantaire to be a tour guide or any other job that involves being around people.
> 
> Thank you for reading this, you're all lovely cupcakes.


End file.
